A True Gem
by LunaStorm
Summary: In which there is snow in the air, a gem is kidnapped, Lestrade has too much to do, Sherlock discovers his favourite biscuits, and John misses everything of importance.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**_A Christmas Case for Sherlock Holmes_**

**A TRUE GEM  
**

"Bored."

John ignored the deep, intense voice of his annoying flatmate as he went about making his morning tea.

The sky out was that pearly shade of grey that promises snow: he could already anticipate the cheerfully pungent air waiting for him outside, the peculiar quality of cold that heralded a white sprinkle over the city. Glancing out, he could see the cheerful blinking lights of the decorations through the windows opposite theirs. Only two days to Christmas, now.

He wasn't going to let Sherlock ruin the mood.

"Boo-reed!"

Not for anything.

He opened the fridge and ignored the severed hand in a bowl, neatly tucked next to his butter, with practised ease. There was no point arguing: he simply resigned himself to toast with nothing but jam. Or, make that toast with nothing at all: jam that odd shade of green was likely not jam anymore, no matter what the label claimed. Labels had no hope of keeping up with Sherlock's experiments.

"BORED!"

A dramatic crash testifying to just _how_ _bored_ Sherlock was drew John from his quiet musings. He sighed.

"Was that the vase Mrs. My-Husband-Might-Be-Cheating-On-Me gave you as a thank you gift?" he inquired mildly, bringing a cup of tea for Sherlock into the living room along with his own.

There was no answer, unsurprisingly, so he let it go and put the cup down on a haphazard stack of books near the couch where his mulish best friend was at once sprawled and contorted on himself: a feat that a part of John's brain found vaguely fascinating.

"John, I'm bored."

"When are you not?" he sighed again, lowering himself on his armchair and savouring the hot warmth of his mug. He disliked cold as a rule, but there were little moments like this – cradling a hot drink in chilled hands, watching flames dance in a hearth on the rare occasions he had a chance to, taking a walk in a whirlwind of snowflakes – that really made winter worth it.

"When I have a case!" came a dramatic declaration from the tangle of limbs that was Sherlock.

John blinked, needing a moment to retrace the conversation he hadn't been aware they were having and recognise where his flatmate's comment fit in it.

"That was a rhetorical question, Sherlock!" he exclaimed dryly.

"Well, it wasn't a rhetorical answer," retorted Sherlock petulantly.

John made vaguely soothing noises as he sipped his tea. Sometimes it worked.

This time it didn't.

Sherlock glared at him outraged, then jumped up from the couch with one of his characteristic bouts of feverish energy and started pacing the room like a caged panther, literally jumping on the furniture when it got in his way.

John closed his eyes, just to avoid the risk of getting dizzy watching that pale blue dressing gown flapping furiously, and continued savouring his hot tea. There was no need for any input on his part. Sherlock was going to start ranting any minute now...

"Why can't someone have the decency to become a serial killer?"

Case in point.

"Don't let anyone hear you say that," warned John, knowing it would do no good, but having to try anyway.

Sherlock went on ignoring him: "A really juicy triple murder, now that would be something... or a locked room mystery, maybe... why can't anyone commit a decent crime?"

John opened his eyes to watch his best friend throwing his hands in the air dramatically. Probably despairing over the current irritating goodness of people.

"It's Christmas," he offered tentatively.

"Oh, God, you can't possibly believe in all that ridiculous 'goodwill to men' stuff," scoffed Sherlock.

John wisely didn't answer. In his opinion, it was a fact that Christmas season just made everybody more inclined to feel happy with their lot, even if only for a short time. Well, mostly everybody. But still, there was something in the combination of luminous reds and rich greens, of golden shines and glossy tinsels, of Christmas carols and brightly-coloured gifts, that very simply made people friendlier, happier... for a while.

There was no way to put the feeling into words Sherlock would understand, though, so he simply repeated: "It's Christmas."

"Four serial suicides in a row is Christmas, John! A rush of frenzied shopping that supposedly celebrates a man who preached the renunciation of worldly goods is just hypocrisy."

John sighed. "I'm just trying to say that you shouldn't expect people to feel vicious with stockings hanging in their living room and the fragrance of gingerbread cookies in the air, or to commit some brutal crime when there's snow in the yard and strangers shouting 'Merry Christmas' to those who pass them in the streets."

Sherlock glared disgustedly at John and muttered something along the lines of "Ridiculous!"

He stopped his restless pacing to glare out of the window for a moment: "There are about 7 billions people in the world and only 2.2 billion of them are Christian of any denomination so why is it that everybody seems convinced there is something special about this date?"

"There's more to Christmas than religion, Sherlock."

"It's a religious commemoration," pointed out the consulting detective with his usual fastidiousness.

"Perhaps, but when it comes down to it, Christmas is about family, warmheartedness, togetherness, friendship: it's about working together towards something good; about giving the best of themselves in the service of others and reaffirming the ties with your loved ones." He shrugged slightly with a small smile: "These are values anyone can share and that's what makes Christmas special. Belief in a specific deity is not required."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

"No!" said John calmly, but raising his voice just enough to make his point heard. "Nothing you will every possibly say will make me change my mind on this. Christmas _is _special and that's all there is to it!"

Sherlock pouted. "Still don't see why criminals should stop committing crimes because of it!" he muttered petulantly.

John snorted a laugh into his mug. "They don't. See?" he waved the newspaper as evidence. "Several frauds, couple cases of embezzlement..."

"Dull!"

"Drug possession..." he continued in an overly-innocent voice.

Sherlock glowered at him.

"Shoplifting all over the place..."

"Dull, dull, dull!"

"At least three instances of assault and battery..."

"Oh, God, please spare me!" shouted Sherlock in his typical exaggerated way. He grabbed the frame of the window and gazed out at the street below with loathing: "Look at that," he murmured in disgust. "Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful."

John chuckled: "You're insufferable, you know that?"

"I need a case, John. I _need_ it!"

"So text Lestrade and tell him you'll solve a couple of the shoplifting ones," John joked.

Sherlock only just barely beat back a scream of pure frustration. "I mean a _good _case!_" _He hit the frame with a fist, again and again:_ "_A murder! An international smuggling ring! _Something_!"

Then he rounded on John with a look of utter despair: "John, my brain is rotting as we speak, I can _feel_ it. I. Need. A. Case!"

"You could always ask Mycroft for one of his," said John lightly.

The resultant glower would have incinerated him on the spot if such a thing was even remotely possible. John chuckled again and folded up the paper he'd glanced through.

There was a pause of glum silence in which he enjoyed draining his tea with a contented sigh.

"John."

"Hm?"

"I need a case!"

"And I need to go," replied John easily, getting up and gathering his things.

"Go? What do you mean, go?" Sherlock stopped suddenly the pacing he'd just resumed and glared at him, looking completely outraged.

"To the clinic," specified John patiently. "You know, my job?"

"Dull!" spat Sherlock, collapsing on the couch once more.

John shrugged. Truth be told, he wasn't at all sorry to have an excuse to leave his flatmate to his own devices for a while. No matter what that would likely mean for the safety of his laptop, Mrs. Hudson's furniture, or the flat in general.

"See you later!" he called back. He got no reaction, but that was Sherlock for you.

* * *

_To be continued soon!  
Luna_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

The air was indeed icy and sparkling and John felt energized. It was certainly going to snow soon. The thought put a genuine smile on his face: somehow, snow always had the power to cheer him up. Especially around Christmastime.

The walk to the clinic didn't take long and, as he'd been doing every morning in the last week, he made a beeline for the colourful stand just outside the entrance: a small, wooden booth that sold little toys and trinkets as a way to raise funds for the wing destined to long-term hospitalization of children.

A part of John always felt saddened in catching sight of it, and perhaps irritated: why was it that these things only ever popped up around Christmas? Children in need were in need every day of the year! To only think of them towards the end of December didn't sit well with him.

On the other hand, his inner army doctor knew all too well that when you're in need _any_ help, however small, counts. Too many times he'd found himself fighting haemorrhage with nothing but hope because blood stoppers and even bandages were too hard to come by. Too many times he'd dreamed of and wished for simple things like sterile sponges and antibiotic ointments, because even one antiseptic wipe could mean life instead of death. A children's hospital was a world apart from a scorching battlefield, of course, but the principle remained the same. Any little help was immensely better than no help at all.

So he dutifully bought too trinkets every morning: nothing overly much, just the price of the coffee he usually indulged in but could easily go without – as he pointedly informed his more indifferent colleagues. They were usually brightly-coloured plastic bracelets or spinning tops and they worked as well as lollipops on his youngest patients.

As he drew near, he saw that today it was the blonde teenager manning the stand, Sylvie, and he stifled a groan.

It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the poor girl, far from it. Of the three that rotated at the task of handing out the trinkets, she was the youngest and the sweetest. The dark-haired one, Brittany, was a scowling cloud of ill-humour, forever complaining about having to stay there in the cold – John had had to bite his tongue more than once: why was she working there if she didn't believe in what she did? – and as for the ever-indifferent Claire, she could barely be bothered to raise her voice enough for her languid comments to be heard: it was frankly off-putting.

Sylvie, on the other hand, was radiant with cheerfulness and seemed to have the gift of charming every child that crossed her path. She was sweet and generally more than suited for what she did.

No, the problem was that she had a major crush on John and that was... awkward.

John steeled himself for whatever today's nonsense would be and called out a greeting much more cheerful than he felt.

She turned sharply when she heard his voice, apparently forgetting her other customer entirely mid-sentence, and went red to the roots of her hair: "Oh! Doctor Watson!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Good morning!" Her eyes were lighting up the way Sherlock's did before a SEM microscope pointed at the head of a maggot. It was unnerving.

"Ah... hello." He tried for a genuine smile and hoped it wasn't coming out as a grimace instead. It really wasn't her fault, he reminded himself – except that, well, it kind of was.

Her smile grew impossibly bright: "I'll be right with you!" she exclaimed happily.

She wrapped up the sale on the other corner of the stand with impressive speed, while John tried to ignore the amused grin the other customer was throwing at him.

Then she turned back to John, red flowing to her cheeks again, and hurried to him. Or tried to. As John had noticed, she seemed to become incredibly clumsy around him. Case in point... She tripped on her own feet, grabbed blindly to stop her fall and in so doing, knocked over an entire shelf, spilling toys all over, promptly slipped on a fallen toy car and barely avoided a tumble by catching herself on the counter, half of which was overturned and collapsed on her, pouring yet more trinkets on the floor of the stand.

John valiantly refrained from laughing. He was rather proud that his 'Are you alright?' came out with the right degree of friendly-medical concern, too.

She whimpered and his half-smile vanished. "Did you hurt yourself?" he asked quickly, this time with true worry. It didn't seem so, his expert eye scanned her and found nothing wrong except a bit of embarrassment and perhaps a few bumps, but she was clearly distressed. Maybe he'd missed something...

"Oh! Oh, no! Oh, what a disaster!" she sniffed. "Oh, what you must think of me!"

John relaxed in relief. Just embarrassment then, alright. Nothing serious.

"I'm so s-sorry, Doctor Watson!" she very nearly wailed. "I... oh, God, I'm never so c-clumsy, I promise you, I just... I don't know what came over me!"

She looked around dismayed and John fidgeted, unsure: "There, there, ah, it's alright," he said weakly.

She raised to him clear blue eyes filled with tears and he hastily added: "Could happen to anybody. Really, nothing to be ashamed about. I know you're not – ah – clumsy. You're, hum. Very capable. Yeah."

"Oh! Do you mean that?" she lit up and John cursed silently his inability to just keep his mouth shut. "Oh! Doctor Watson, you're so kind!" she sighed dreamily.

He gave her a strained smile, praying she wouldn't read anything in it, and she giggled. Actually _giggled. _John cursed within himself. Forget giggling at crime scenes: he had to remember to warn Sherlock that giggles were Not Good _anywhere_. Especially if a woman – or girl, as it were – was included in the equation.

"Right... ah... I should just..." he half-gestured to the clinic. "Work, you know... ehm... if I could just..."

He stopped expectantly, realized she was wasn't going to guess the end of his sentence, coughed awkwardly and waved his wallet a little, giving her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

She smiled back, apparently oblivious of his wish to do exactly what he'd come here to do – namely, buy two trinkets for charity. She was also blushing prettily again. God above, couldn't such a girl have happened to him, say, back when he was in high school?

Quickly, he grabbed two random things from the nearest not-upturned basket: "I'll take these," he said more brightly than it was warranted, holding them up in one hand.

The girl started, as if surprised, then smiled vivaciously: "Of course! It's so good of you to stop by every day. You're so generous, Doctor Watson!" John closed his eyes, praying for patience. "Here, let me give you a little bag..."

"No! No..." he hurriedly interrupted, "no, that's alright. I don't need it!"

"Oh, but...!"

"That's fine!" he said quickly. "Here, I really must go..." He pressed the money into her hand, just willing to leave, but instantly realized his mistake when her breath caught and her eyes went round, staring at their touching hands like a child might gaze at a triple-chocolate cookie handed to him.

John snatched his hand back quicker than if he'd been burned. "Right. Going now. Right."

He backed away hurriedly, but not fast enough to avoid catching her adoring gaze as he turned. He groaned silently and hastened towards the clinic. He supposed he should be flattered, but seriously. She was barely sixteen! Just... _no._

He contemplated morosely the trinkets in his hand. Two 'princess rings' with plastic 'gems', big, gaudy and very, very pink. Hopefully he would get a little girl or two today, he couldn't imagine who else might like such horrid things.

He raised his gaze again only to meet Sarah's laughing eyes as she came up to him from the parking lot. He groaned audibly this time: "Don't you start."

"Why, John! You can't really blame the poor girl. You're an amazing catch, you stud!" she drawled in a truly awful Texan accent.

"Sarah!" he chocked, scandalized.

She burst out laughing: "Your face!"

"It's not funny," he complained as they entered in the familiar entry hall.

That set her off again: "It _so _is!"

"She could be my daughter!" he hissed.

Perhaps catching the slight tone of horror in his voice, she calmed down her chuckles and became a little more sympathetic: "Relax, John. It's just a crush. Girls that age are prone to that kind of thing. It'll pass."

"Know from experience?" he asked snidely, hoping to rile her up. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

Sarah, however, was unfazed and completely unapologetic as she replied serenely: "Chemistry teacher."

"No way!"

"He was so dreamy! Tall and with such dark eyes and..."

"Oh, God, I give up!" John shouted and he all but ran away, followed by her good-natured laugh.

His hope of finding shelter in his job was soon crushed however. He had barely put on his white coat when his first patient entered: an incredibly wrinkled old lady with a truly forbidding hair bun, who peered at him suspiciously before asking with tremulous viciousness: "Are you sure you're a real doctor, young man?"

His eyebrows rising, John briefly debated whether to laugh at her or be offended, then went with neither: "I assure you, madam, I'm very good at my job."

"Hum," she sniffed and scuttled to the chair, perching there like a formidable rook. "Well, at least you're good-looking," she proclaimed.

John stared at her.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

_To be continued!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

And indeed, it was.

A long, trying day of people with sore throats, muscle aches and odd-looking rushes, interspersed with sniffling, coughing, feverish children. Flu season was always draining.

John felt rather proud of how well he was handling his workload, all things considered.

He diagnosed, prescribed, listened to, was sympathetic and didn't once voice his inner grumblings.

He kept his calm in front of the idiotic sports-junkie whose leg hurt, it turned out, because he'd been running 6 miles without having the sense of keeping himself hydrated and who had the gall to proclaim far too jovially: "So you've got to fix me up quickly, ol' chap, I can't miss the race, after all, besides it's nothing serious, just give me some painkillers and I'll be alright, that diclofenac thing works best, now there's a good chap..."

Right. Giving out – to an idiot who couldn't be bothered to look after himself and thought he can self-prescribe, no less – what amounted to a performance enhancing doping substance? John felt he was due points for being polite when he made it clear that That Was Not An Option.

His composure didn't falter under the completely unwarranted rant his irritating colleague, Dr. Tornwell, threw at him when one of Sherlock's homeless turned up with a gash on her arm, even when the fat, grey-haired physician went so far as to complain that "...there's no knowing where we'll end up with your attitude! What will be next, Watson, going around to check on the worthless drug addicts keeling over in back alleys? Administering medicaments to all and sundry?..."

Seriously. It was good John had such excellent self-control. He didn't even point out loud that That Was The Point – they were _doctors,_ for God's sake – or that he hadn't, in fact, asked Tornwell to _do_ anything about it – he treated the homeless who turned up as a choice, but knew better than to expect the same from the likes of Tornwell. Nor did he punch the selfish right-winger in the nose. Points again.

All in all, though, he was feeling rather stressed by mid-morning, which was a tad too early in his book.

The only ray of light he got was a sweet seven-year-old Asian girl, whose anxious adoptive parents brought in, panicked because of her wheezing cough.

She was cute and shy, turning to hide her shallow features and high cheekbones from him, then peering out to him upside down from a fringe of black hair, and she looked utterly adorable in the protective circle of her mother's arms.

The tall, blonde woman quickly explained that their usual paediatrician was on holiday, but they were too worried to wait for him to come back, then tried to cajole her shy daughter to let herself be examined: "Come on, Angel, the Doctor will make you all better!"

Meanwhile the young-looking, worried father, who kept running a hand over and over in his hair, quickly reported what symptoms they'd observed, along with everything they'd looked up on the internet about them – "Although in the end, we just got more and more confused," he concluded ruefully.

John chuckled: "Yeah, that's not the best source of information when it comes to health. Too many people just writing their exalted opinions without bothering to gain a medical degree first."

All three adults chuckled quietly together and this seemed to convince the little girl that John was harmless after all, because she slid quietly from her mother's lap and padded over to grasp a little handful of his trousers lightly, letting the doctor pick her up and set her on the cot for the examination without a fuss.

John quickly determined that she was more or less healthy and the only cause for worry was the high-pitched whistling sound his stethoscope picked up from her lungs. She gasped and giggled at how cold it was and he tapped her button nose with a smile, making her laugh and cough.

"I think it's nothing more serious than an allergic reaction," he told the worried parents. "Did she get a flu vaccine?"

"Yes, the new nasal spray one," the mother told him, worriedly. "Is that what's making her ill? It was supposed to be better than shots..."

John smiled: "It generally is, because it avoids the risk of soreness, pain, and swelling, but sometimes it can result in sore throat, weakness, chills, and yes, wheezing. It usually only lasts a day or two, though, so you should be feeling better quickly," he concluded turning to the girl herself.

She nodded shyly and smiled at him, showing off two missing front teeth when he picked her up again and returned her to her mother. The two made a lovely picture, the little girl's dark skin and black hair nestled against the fair woman.

"The paediatrician recommended the vaccine so insistently..." said the father unhappily, clearly distressed that they'd unintentionally brought harm to their daughter.

"Just ask for her to get a flu shot instead next time and she shouldn't have any problem," reassured John, before reaching into his jacket pocket and offering one of the pink plastic rings to the girl. "Here, little one. This is for you, since you were such a good patient."

She beamed and chirped: "Thank you, Doctor!"

John smiled back: "My, what a polite little princess," he commented jokingly.

"Oh, she is!" gushed the radiant father, gazing lovingly at her. "She is a true gem."

John saw the little family out and sighed a little wistfully. Ah, if only all of his patients were like this!

Although admittedly, the sharp, mischievous boy who'd dared his little brother to an 'eating snow contest', catching them both a cold in the process, wasn't so bad. It was the kind of thing Harry and he might have done as children.

Alright. _Did_ as children.

John grinned and winked at the two squabbling boys behind their exasperated mother's back.

The diabetic man in denial, on the other hand, made him feel as if he'd gone through a round of Anderson's particular brand of stupidity.

"What do you mean, injections? I don't want any injections."

"Mr. Dymond, you need insulin and subcutaneous injections are the best way to..."

"Need? _Need?_" The man glared at him: "Why would I need that... whatever you said, stuff? I'm not ill. I'm just feeling under the weather."

Right...

It was nearing lunch-time when he got a visitor that wasn't a patient. The interruption was more welcome than he'd like to admit, at least at first.

"Hum, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes?" he asked, surprised to see one of the girls from the fund-raising stand outside – Brittany, the sullen one – on the door. For once, she looked alert, rather than bored – and worried, too. "Has something happened? Are you hurt?"

"No, no," she fended him off quickly. "No, I- I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's been a bit of a mix up- Sylvie getting the boxes confused, you know how it can happen... and..."

John watched her uncomprehendingly.

She faltered, but went on: "I- I was just wondering if I could have a look at the rings you purchased today? Just a check, you know..."

"Oh," said John, completely puzzled. "Hum, sure? But I already gave one away, I'm afraid." He twirled to search his pockets for the other one, asking idly: "What is it you need to check, anyway?"

"What?" she froze, the syllable coming out rather strangled. "You... what... why?"

He turned to her, even more puzzled: "I gave one to a little girl I treated. Here's the other, though. Looks pretty unremarkable to me."

"You... you gave it away..." she was paling terribly.

"I always give the trinkets out to the children who come in," explained John, frowning. "What on earth is wrong with that?"

With _you,_ he didn't add.

The girl bit her lip viciously, then she seemed to collect herself: "Oh, it's just," she made a haphazard motion with her hand. John wondered what on earth she could be so nervous for. Suddenly, she seemed to make a decision: "You won't get us in trouble about this, will you?" she gave him the puppy eyes.

"In trouble?" echoed John, now completely confused.

"It's just, we made a mistake is all. We were not supposed to touch the box in the corner, because it had some faulty ones, but Sylvie forgot and she opened the box and actually she says she only sold them to you, but..."

"Ah," John nodded, finally getting an idea about what she was talking about: "And you think you'll get in trouble for this?"

He fought a smile. Surely not?

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing serious. Besides this seems okay to me," he told her gently.

She glanced the ring over quickly: "Oh, yes, of course. Quite alright. They got mixed, though, you know? I'm just trying to substitute the faulty ones," she insisted a little desperately. "Preferably before Mrs. Peterson finds out. You know how it is. You, ah... you don't think the girl you gave it to is still around?"

"I doubt it," said John shaking his head, "but why are you so worried? I'm sure it doesn't matter all that much."

Brittany looked for an instant as if she wanted to bite his head off: "Mrs. Peterson is very strict!" she told him with as much dignity as someone with a spider-shaped pendant and skull earrings around Christmastime could hope to gather. "She's going to blame us for the mistake and make a huge fuss about it and probably bore us to _death_ with her scolding!"

John refrained from rolling his eyes. She was eighteen, that kind of threat was probably dire indeed, for her.

"Look, stop worrying," he told her patiently. "I'm sure there was nothing wrong with the ring I gave out. I'm even more sure that even if there was, the girl's parents won't come back to complain about it. So just relax about it, ok?"

Brittany glared at him blankly for a moment, then she forced a hesitant, insincere smile: "Of course. You're probably right, Doctor Watson. I'm worrying about nothing. Only, if Mrs. Peterson finds out... she's very strict, you know."

"I'm sure," he said soothingly, gently shooing her out the door.

"_Very_ strict!"

"Yes, yes..." he sighed long-sufferingly, only to meet Sarah's amused gaze as she passed by.

She promptly made a detour to where he was standing, gaze following Brittany through the crowded hall for a long moment before turning to him again: "I thought it was the blonde one who fancied you?"

That brought him up short. "Excuse me?"

"Thinking up silly excuses to meet you... What next?" Sarah shook her head with mock despair, laughter in her eyes. "At least she's smart enough not to pretend she's feeling ill, you'd spot that in a minute..."

John groaned. Was she really...? But no, he hadn't got that kind of vibe from the encounter. Although that would explain the nonsensical conversation. Maybe Sylvie had come up with the idiotic idea to get him back out at the stand to 'exchange the faulty trinkets'? Then sent Brittany because she was too shy or something? Girls in sitcoms did that kind of thing.

He pondered.

Had it just been a silly plot to get him out in Sylvie's company again? He could imagine Sherlock's comments on the matter if it was so. But something just didn't feel right with the explanation. Though, in effect, Brittany was just the kind of girl to grow irritated with such a farce and react as she had to him frustrating her probably-not-very-willing-in-the-first-place efforts. But that didn't ring true to him.

On the other hand, they were teenager girls. A species apart by definition. And one Sarah had an enormously better chance at understanding than him. Maybe he just didn't want to admit the ridiculousness of the situation those girls were putting him in.

He groaned again. God help him.

He took a deep breath to avoid glaring at his innocent next patient. Which turned out to be not so innocent after all, seeing as he was there for the sole purpose of convincing him to sign a medical permission to cover his week-end in Southend.

Not. An. Option.

John managed not to scream at him and afforded himself bonus points for it.

Then he went to grab a sandwich for lunch and prayed the afternoon would be better.

* * *

_A/N:__ I know, I'm watching too much Doctor House these days. But I promise, there is a point to this :). Many thanks to my best friend, who's currently an intern, for all the pesky medical details. Luna  
_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

His hope was dashed instantly when he walked back to the clinic to find a pink little nightmare screaming her lungs out in his office.

She was a little beauty of about four, with golden-chestnut curls and big brown eyes, but her angelic looks were completely belied by her beastly behaviour. Her little face was red and scrunched up and she was kicking a pale and harried adult spitefully, screaming her lungs out.

Said adult - no ring on sight: single father, rather helpless, spoiling her horribly, John mused, and gave himself a mental, congratulatory pat on the shoulder for _observing_ rather than just _seeing,_ for once - was trying to shush her and was, quite clearly, ineffective. She was spoiled alright.

John wasn't an expert on children by far, paediatrics never having been an interest of his before this job, but even he could tell at a glance that hers wasn't the subdued and keening crying of a child in real pain, but rather a tantrum. He spotted what looked like a slap mark on her face and couldn't bring himself to blame the father overly much.

Her tantrum didn't abate in the slightest at his arrival. If anything, her cries became even more screeching and she started shouting: "No! You promised! I want it! I _want _it!"

He stifled his sigh and plastered on his friendly-doctor smile, even though he was itching to give the screaming brat a shouting to of his own. "Hello, I'm Doctor Watson. How can I help you?"

The poor father looked completely unable to cope with the fit his horrid daughter was throwing and tried ineffectually to give the proper greetings and explanations over the screaming cries that almost drowned out his voice.

His worried and hurried "I didn't strike her, I swear!" managed to get through, though, and John got the gist of the situation. A closer examination showed that the 'slap mark' was, instead, a red rash and he nodded to himself.

"Quite alright, it's probably just fifth disease, he reassured the father, though privately, he mused that a slap might have done the girl some good, considering. Unfortunately, it wasn't his place to criticize the man's parenting skills.

So he simply donned a pair of gloves and braved the screaming child. Her tantrum kept going on and on and she was becoming even more hysterical. When John went to try and bounce her frilly t-shirt up to check her torso for the lacy red rash that would confirm his diagnosis, she screamed twice as loudly and kicked _him_.

John gritted his teeth. The father managed a weak: "No, no! Princess, you can't kick the doctor!"

She promptly kicked John again.

Well, enough was enough! Deciding that a decisive action might be in order, he firmed his stance and in his sternest captain voice he barked out: "Stop this instant!"

She was shocked into silence and stillness, staring at him in open disbelief.

John quickly took advantage and stillness and grabbed her gently but firmly by her tiny arms: "Now listen and listen well," he told her commandingly. "I'm a doctor and you're my patient, so you'll stay quiet and do as I say."

Utter outrage filled her; John could practically see her swell with indignation. Her eyes narrowed and she inhaled with a hiss, her face already reddening, clearly about to start screaming again.

"None of that!" John barked again and she was derailed, almost chocking on her own shout, then settled for hissing furiously at John and crossing her little arms, looking at once mulish and wary.

John wasn't impressed and levelled her with a glare he'd perfected through several rounds of 'dear-God-what-is-it-like-in-your-boring-little-brains' from Sherlock.

She tried to kick him again and he grabbed her leg, glaring at her so fiercely she looked actually a little cowed. Alas, not for long.

"You're a very stupid doctor!" she spit.

"No I'm not," John retorted, without missing a beat. "I'm a smart doctor and very good at what I do," he said with matter-of-fact finality.

It was, apparently, the right tactic, for the girl gaped at him, completely surprised that he'd just told her she was wrong instead of pleading and cajoling like she was probably used to. Besides, John had noticed that most children her age tended to take straightforward proclamations as automatically true and unarguable. She quieted down completely, forehead wrinkling in a frown as she tried to work out how the situation was changing around his point-blank declaration. She was clearly thrown by the unexpected turn her little tantrum scene had taken.

John mentally cheered and watched her for a long moment, determining that she was clearly perplexed and not a little curious about this unexpected development. Good enough. "Right, he said briskly, straightening up. Now..."

"What are you gonna do?" she asked demandingly, though thankfully no longer screaming. "What is that?" she pointed at his stethoscope, without bothering to wait for any answer. "Why do I have to stay on this thing?" she batted the cot petulantly. "Why are you dressed like that? Is it doctor's clothes?" she insisted, rage apparently forgotten in favour of inquisitiveness. John thought ruefully about the Power of Curiosity, mind flying to other tantrums diverted by the appearance of a novelty. Not that Sherlock would ever admit they were tantrums, of course.

He checked her torso and found the expected red marks, blithely ignoring her non-stop blathering: "What are you doing? Why do want to see my tummy? Are you going to look into my mouth? Jenny said _her_ doctor looked into her mouth. Why aren't you looking into my mouth?"

John chose not to even try and answer and instead turned to the father, who looked equal part relieved and flabbergasted and kept darting his eyes from John to his little girl, rather reminding the doctor of a soldier who isn't sure whether the safety lever of the grenade he's watching has been released or not.

"Like I said, it's fifth disease. It's not very serious and doesn't need any treatment. It'll go away on its own in a week or so," John said quickly. "I'll give you an antihistamine in case the rash itches, but try not to overdo it."

Unfortunately, it seemed that not being the centre of attention didn't sit well with the irritating girl - another thing she had in common with a certain overgrown child of a detective...

She let out another furious scream.

The father's attention spun to her instantly: "Princess, what's wrong?" he asked frantically.

"_This_ is what's wrong!" she shouted, thrusting out her tiny fist, in which something was clutched tightly. All her previous indignation seemed to swell up in her again and John almost groaned at the idea of a renewal of the tantrum.

"Here's the receipt," he said hurriedly, hoping to get rid of the pair before the situation degenerated again. Unfortunately, he was ignored by both father and daughter. He gritted his teeth once again.

"Princess, please..." tried the father pleadingly. "Just let the doctor finish here and then we'll talk about this..."

"NO!" she shouted furiously. "I don't want no stupid doctors! And I don't want this!" her voice rose even higher.

"That is ENOUGH!" roared John, completely fed up by this point.

The child closed her mouth, bewildered and offended. John glared at her. She bit her lower lip and tried whimpering, hunching a little on herself and turning huge, shocked eyes on him. The father made a distressed sound and fidgeted, but John just looked at her coolly, completely unfazed by the act. She huffed.

"Ehm, well. I. That is. Thank you, Doctor Watson," murmured the father nervously. "Let's go, sweetums."

She narrowed her eyes at him: "But you _promised!_ It's not fair!" she wailed. "You tell him!" she rounded on John, suddenly deciding, for whatever reason, to call upon his higher judgement and clearly expecting him to agree with her against her father.

John stared at her, amazed at her behaviour.

"But Princess..." sighed the father.

"You said I could have a ring if I came here! Like a real princess!"

"Yes, yes, but you do have a ring, don't you? I bought you one before we got lunch, surely..."

"It's _wrong_!" she screamed. "Look!" she turned to John again, holding out her palm authoritatively for his perusal.

John sighed and looked down at the gaudy ring with a plastic 'gem', almost identical to the ones he'd bought that morning, except that it looked a little crooked and not well-fitted - probably because she'd abused the plastic during her earlier tantrum - and the fake stone was blue rather than pink.

"It's a ring," he told her flatly.

"It's _blue!" _she spit, as if it was the worst offence in the history of toy rings.

John blinked. And resisted the temptation of a deadpan comment. Barely.

"But Princess," tried the father, a little desperately, "blue is a nice colour, isn't it?"

"It's not for princesses!" she retorted haughtily. "Princesses have _pink_ rings. Everybody knows it!" She crossed her arms, glowering.

"But Princess, don't you remember, Princess Jasmine has a blue dress..." the father tapered off under his daughter's contemptuous glare.

"Well, she doesn't have a _ring_, does she," the girl retorted.

Suddenly, and with a wave of relief, John saw the light and a way to bring this irritating meeting to a quick end: "Here," he said brightly, talking over the annoying pair, and he fished out the second of the rings he'd bought that morning. "How about I swap yours for this one?"

The girl brightened instantly: "Oooh!" she cooed and in the blink of an eye, the pink gaudy thing was on her finger, looking quite out of place, too big for her frail hand, and the slightly smaller blue one was carelessly thrust against John's chest, where it bounced off and clattered to the floor. "You were right!" she exclaimed happily. "You really are a smart doctor!"

And she started happily singing something about a prince and birds and wedding bells ringing. Did she never keep quiet?

John wondered if his uncharitable wish that she'd get strep throat was really that awful of him, considering he wasn't even voicing it. Probably no points for him this time. Ah, well.

He managed to usher the apologetic and grateful father and the innocently beaming child-brat out and didn't quite resist the temptation of slamming the door behind them and collapsing against it.

Why did he keep thinking he would like marriage and kids again?

He caught sight of the discarded, offensively blue trinket on the floor and picked it up with a sigh. She had to have mistreated it rather badly, because an outer layer of transparent plastic was peeling off of the 'gem' at the corners already, the way it usually happened to cheap toys a few weeks after they were bought. He rolled his eyes, stuffing it in a pocket and debated going out to tell the receptionist that if he saw another child today he might end up screaming. He was sure Mandy would sympathize with him - she was a very understanding person.

Apparently, though, someone had decreed today to be Saddle John With Bratty Girls Day, because instead of Nancy, he spotted _Brittany_ by the reception station; the teenager was propped on the tall counter and leaning dangerously over it to reach the staff computer on the other side.

He frowned and walked purposely to her.

"Brittany?" he asked sternly.

She jumped in fright and cried out, overbalancing and knocking her elbow painfully. "What!" she spat rounding on him. "Oh, ah. D-doctor Watson!" she stammered.

"What are you doing?" he asked suspiciously.

Her eyes widened and darted around, as if looking for help: "N-nothing!" she squealed and added quickly: "That is, I'm just waiting. Ehm. For the receptionist to come back, is all."

"Really," said John, without losing his frown.

"I gave her my ID, for a copy," she muttered, just a little desperately. She looked tense and uncomfortable, as if she really didn't want him to find out more.

John's frown shifted fractionally: "Wait, to register as a patient, you mean? Are you feeling ill?"

"No!" she said instantly. "No, I just... hum... that is... I-I scraped my hand over- hum- but you needn't worry or anything!"

John relaxed, slightly amused: "Well, I am a doctor, you know. So I kind of do."

"It's just that I don't want a big fuss or anything," the girl explained, growing more earnest. "In fact, I'd rather it all be forgotten. If Mrs. Peterson finds out..."

Ah, of course. The terrible Mrs. Peterson.

"I'm not going to rat you out to your boss, you know," he told the girl, now really amused.

"It's just that she's..."

"Very strict, yes. So I've heard," he said dryly.

"It's barely a scratch, honest, I wouldn't have even bothered to come in, only, it was a rusty nail, so..."

John nodded: "Better safe than sorry, yes. Wouldn't do to catch tetanus right outside a clinic. Do you need me to give you the shot?"

"Doctor Sawyer already did," she replied promptly. "really, you can just go, Doctor Watson. I'm all fine."

John narrowed his eyes. "Right," he said mildly. "Except that none of this explains what you were doing with the staff computer," he added with a pointed gaze.

She froze like a deer in headlights and then, catching him completely off-guard, she bolted around the counter, almost pouncing on the computer.

However, reflexes honed by a sherlockian life-style meant that nowadays, John reacted to someone bolting from a questioning without much input from his brain. In a heartbeat, he was on her and dragging her away from the mouse, right on time to catch sight of a window being reduced.

He shot her a furious look, manhandling her back to the proper side of the counter with a hissed: "What do you think you're doing!" then stalked back to examine the reduced windows and figure out what she was up to. There were just two: a database format for patient registration, with the kind of boring bureaucratic details they were required to collect for statistical purposes - name, sex, age, address, arrival time and so on: nothing that could possibly interest a teenager - and... ah. A flash game Solitaire, half-way through.

He sighed openly, standing up and glowering at the pale and worried girl: "Honestly!" he huffed. "Solitaire, Brittany? This is a workstation! I can't believe you were playing here...!"

She recovered a bit of colour and seemed to calm down considerably. "You..." she said hesitantly. Then she tossed her hair defiantly. "You don't seem very angry, Doctor."

"You can bet I'm angry!" he snapped. "What were you thinking! Scratch that, were you thinking at all?"

Brittany sulked and hugged herself a little. "It was already open," she defended herself sulkily.

John rolled his eyes and firmly steered her towards the waiting area, where she sprawled on a plastic chair with a put-upon huff. "She was losing anyway," she grumbled. "I was doing her a favour, really."

John smothered the chuckle that threatened to erupt, made a mental note to have a quiet word with Mandy about playing during work hours, and delivered a very condensed That-was-wrong-I-better-not-catch-you-at-it-again scolding to Brittany, before going to poke his head in Sarah's office with a very hangdog expression.

"John?" she asked, a little concerned, half-rising from her desk.

"When did I become a full-time playground monitor?" he asked mournfully.

She chuckled, fell back into her seat and waved him off.

The rest of the day, by God's blessing, was less stressful - although if he ever met in person the businesswoman who thought sending her PA with a list of symptoms instead of coming herself to be examined was smart, he'd have some pent-up frustration to _vent_ at her alright - and in the end, his turn drew to an end. At least he was free the next day, he thought.

It was dark and raining slightly outside when he finally shed his white coat. Walking briskly, he fished out his phone and glanced through the expected list of texts. With the mood Sherlock had been in that morning, being pestered by his messages was certainly not unexpected. Seeing as the first ten had been not-so-poetic variations on the theme '_We're out of milk, drop your boring albeit necessary job and get some so I don't have to get up from this comfortable couch_' - which was just typical, really - he'd turned it to silent mode and deliberately ignored it during the day.

He half-regretted it now, though, because scrolling through the list, he realized that sometime after lunchtime the tone of the texts had shifted from '_I want tea, come home now_' and 'I_'m bored, come home now_', to '_I'm no longer bored, come home now._'

A case? That was most likely. If Sherlock had found an experiment that could engage his interest, he'd either have forgotten to text entirely, or gone on pestering him about tea, so... apparently not all criminals went on holiday around Christmastime.

Fighting a grin, John looked around for a cab.

He arrived at 221 Baker Street just in time to see his flatmate bounding down the stairs, coat flapping because he was still buttoning it up and manic stars in his eyes.

"John!" he shouted gleefully. "At last!"

John found himself unceremoniously thrown back into the cab he'd barely left and he tried to get his bearings while Sherlock rattled off an address to the cabby imperiously.

"So..." John coughed awkwardly, smothering a smile. "I take it my dinner will have to wait?"

"John!" reproached Sherlock. "We have more important things to worry about than food!" He was positively beaming and John felt torn between groaning and grinning. "The game is afoot!"

* * *

_A/N:__ And here we go - Sherlock has a case! Which means I'm facing the daunting task of writing his deductions... oh, dear... Luna  
_


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this. In particular, __I am here (obviously!) paying homage to Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Blue Carbuncle", possibly my favourite of Sherlock Homes' short stories, along with "The Speckled Band"._

* * *

John fought to contain his own, rising excitement. But not too hard: a case was a case, after all, and deep down, it wasn't just Sherlock that felt it had been too long. He was already feeling energized and more alert than should be possible after the hellish day he'd had.

"Care to bring me up to date?" he asked his best friend, not bothering to stifle his eager grin.

Sherlock's eyes were glistening with excitement: "A jewellery theft!" he cried happily.

John raised his eyebrows: "Really?" he asked, surprised. "Doesn't seem like the kind of case you would get excited about. You usually solve these ones from home, if at all."

"Ah, but John! This case isn't half as dull as I first feared. See, there is no trace that the theft happened at all!"

"What? You mean you what, deduced it had happened before anybody realized it?"

"No, no, John. I doubt even I would have noticed hadn't I been told. I do need data as basis for my deductions after all!" Sherlock told him reproachfully. "But see, Horner's has a state of the art alarm system, truly excellent, I've researched it and it is considered the best on the market; alarm system, which is still armed and showing no evidence of tampering! The sensors have recorded no unusual changes and there is not the smallest trace that anyone touched anything around the incriminated display case. Furthermore, the shop is in the Hatton Garden area, which means there are security cameras virtually everywhere: yet they show nothing of use."

John nodded distractedly: Hatton Garden had been the centre of London's jewellery trade since the Middle Ages and to this day, it was well-known for being the largest and most concentrated cluster of jewellery retailers in the UK. High security in the area was a given... "Wait!" he frowned suddenly: "How do you know what the security cameras did or didn't register?"

"I watched the feeds, of course," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. "In a case such as this, the provider of the security system is obviously the prime suspect – having the skills and possibility to arrange, say, an opportune malfunctioning or the like... Therefore I went to Breckinridge Security this afternoon, as soon as I'd finished examining the crime scene. The possible time-frame of the theft is restricted enough that checking the pertinent recordings didn't take long."

"And they just let you see whatever you wanted?" asked John disbelievingly.

"Well, no, they wouldn't," admitted Sherlock. "I came to an understanding with the manager and owner, though. A Mr. Howard Breckinridge, in his early fifties, recently divorced judging by the mark on his ring-finger; making a good attempt at looking utterly professional – classic, Henry Huntsman suit, ready tailored, but nevertheless; eye-contact at all times; curt politeness: conveying the image of a person of competence and discretion and with many zeroes in his annual bonus package; a very glaring tell, however: he kept drumming his fingers on the desk, eagerly, not erratically - nervousness, then, born of impatience, not fear - and glancing at the Pink'un website on his smartphone every few minutes – compulsive gambler, _obvious_ – all I had to do was goad him into a few bets: I lost a fiver and gained access to his archives." He looked very pleased with himself.

"Amazing," murmured John, unable to contain his smile. "And there was no sign of anything being amiss?"

"None whatsoever!" confirmed Sherlock gleefully. He paused artfully. "Except, of course, that the Blue Carbuncle is missing," he concluded, and sat back, extremely satisfied.

"The blue carbuncle?" asked John curiously.

"It's a very famous gem, but only in the right circles," Sherlock told him virtuously. "Forty-grain weight, unfaceted and convex, resinous rather than vitreous luster; remarkable for its colour, obviously, which marks its rarity."

"And gives it the name," guessed John, a bit surprised by the enthusiasm with which Sherlock was relying all this. It seemed a tad unwarranted, considering his friend's usual attitude to trivia.

"Obviously," confirmed Sherlock's. "Though of course it is rather _improperly_ named. 'Carbuncle' is an archaic name for the nesosilicates nowadays more commonly known as garnets."

"I thought garnets were red?" asked John.

"They actually come in many colours, depending on what trace elements impurities they contain. Blue garnets are invariably the result of a high vanadium content, along with some chromium, as evidenced by the fact that in most instances they exhibit a dramatic colour change from green-blue in sunlight or fluorescent light, to a purplish red if exposed to incandescent lighting," explained Sherlock. "The Blue Carbuncle, however, is one of the only two non-colour-changing blue garnets ever found, the other having been recently discovered in in Bekily, Madagascar."

He turned to gaze out of the window with a faraway look: "It's really very fascinating. I wish I could examine it with a scanning electron microscope, or even better, a mass spectrometer. It would be interesting to determine its solid solution series exactly... I suspect it would prove to be the pyrope-almandine-spessarite combination, most likely with balanced percentages of pyrope and spessartine and almost no almandine. And of course, the vanadium content would likely prove to be very high, possibly up to 1.5 weight percent..."

He trailed off with the kind of focused, absent look that meant he was engaged in a thought experiment somewhere in his mind palace.

John shook his head in fond amazement. Sherlock would never cease to baffle him. The turns his vast, if skewed, mental encyclopaedia could take...

"How do you know so much about it?" he let slip, both admiring and incredulous.

He only half-expected an answer, resigned by now to the fact that when Sherlock got lost in his own mind, John's voice simply didn't register with him anymore.

To his surprise, however, Sherlock did reply: "You know perfectly well I have studied geology in-depth," he said admonishingly. "It is a rather an excellent forensic tool, after all. Really, John, you know my methods! Why are you even surprised?"

John nodded slowly: "Yes, the muds and everything, I get _that_. Linking suspects to a crime scene because of soil analysis... pretty amazing and all, yeah. But this is gemstones... jewels, ornaments; nothing very practical, is it? I didn't think you would be interested in precious stones."

"Jewels are often a nucleus and focus of crime," retorted Sherlock. "Of course they're interesting."

"Oh?"

Sherlock gave him a sharp, displeased look: "We have first-hand proof of it, John. Honestly! You can't have forgotten that jade hairpin already. You even wrote an absurdly romanticized account of the case on your silly blog!"

John rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. He was rather fascinated by the impromptu lesson and didn't want his friend to interrupt it just to berate him. Or sulk.

Sherlock, anyway, was already launching into further explanations: "And there are so many other instances to support my claim, if you but look at the history of crime. Really, every good gemstone is a fulcrum of law-breaking. There is something in the way they glint and sparkle that has a potent effect on men's greed. They are a lure for the most heinous acts. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed."

"Poetic," murmured John, amused.

Sherlock ignored him and made a short, demonstrative gesture with his hand: "Take this one we're supposed to recover, for instance. This particular garnet was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and brought to England after the Treaty of Nanking of 1842. In less than thirty years after that, it became the pivotal motivation for two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide and several robberies."

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely." There was no mistaking the glee in Sherlock's tone. "Then it was inherited by the Countess of Morcar... and she managed to lose it in one of the most creative and singular thefts I have knowledge of."

John turned part-way to him: "This ought to be good," he said expectantly.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up just a fraction: "She was here in London, staying at a hotel with no other company but her maid, and the stone went missing from her own jewel-case. An unlucky plumber, who had been called upon for some minor repairs, was accused of having abstracted it; though the case against him collapsed because there was no way to prove anything. Mainly because there was nothing to prove, he was innocent." Sherlock sniffed. "Incontrovertible evidence that the police wasn't any more competent a hundred years ago than it is now."

John smothered a chuckle.

"It was only ten days later that the gem resurfaced, however," Sherlock continued, darting a smug glance at John, "in the stomach of a goose."

"Excuse me?" asked John, fighting laughter. "Did you say _the stomach of a goose?_"

"Precisely, John. Pay attention! A woman bought a city-bred goose for her family's Christmas dinner, having no idea, of course, that the bird she'd chosen by chance was of considerably more value than what she'd paid it. And when she went to prepare it..."

John burst out laughing: "You're having me on!"

"I assure you, John, I am perfectly serious. That is what happened."

"But how did it get in there?"

"Ah, that's the beauty of it. Nobody could make heads or tails of that little mystery. Of course, if _I _had been there, I would have been able to sort it out easily..."

"How so?" asked John fondly.

"Why, by the simple expedient of checking where the goose was bought! Any idiot should have been able to do so. It would likely have taken a bit of legwork, since it might have changed hands more than once, but ultimately, it couldn't have been difficult to trace it from buyer to seller, back to whoever raised it. Because obviously, the only way for the gem to end up where it was, was for the goose to have eaten it."

"If you say so," said John agreeably.

"Unfortunately, nobody had the sense to do something as simple as that, and it was merely by luck that the mystery was solved at all. The Countess' maid, you see, had been an accomplice of sorts, in that she'd known who the real culprit was and said nothing, because he'd promised to marry her. When, instead, he disappeared without a word, she came forth and told the tale – out of spite, I imagine, because the man had already left British soil and she was the only one to be punished in the end."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," commented John sagely.

"Still, they were all idiots. If they'd but used their head, they wouldn't have needed that woman's deposition to figure out that the culprit's sister was a breeder of geese, and they would have caught the man before he made it off to wherever. Instead they just wondered and marvelled and wrote sensationalistic articles about it afterwards." Sherlock sniffed. "Very inefficient."

"Real culprit?"

"The upper-attendant at the hotel. He stole the gem, framed the plumber and hid his spoils very cleverly, by feeding it to one of his sister's geese, of which she had promised him his pick as Christmas present! A very clever and very daring decision, which would have marked him forever as a genius of crime, if he hadn't then been so idiotic as to forget which goose he'd fed the gem to, and proceeded to take off with the wrong one."

John collapsed into helpless laughter: "Unbelievable!"

"Perhaps," mused Sherlock, his eyes slightly narrowed. "But you know, John, I feel this case might present several parallelism with that one. Indeed, I would not be surprised if the perpetrators had chosen a similar way to fool us all..."

John's eyebrows rose: "You expect the thieves to have fed the thing to a goose?" he managed through his chuckles.

"Don't be ridiculous John. Nobody grows geese in town anymore."

John gulped in some air and stared. "And that's what you find ridiculous with my statement?"

Sherlock ignored him: "Ah, here we are," he remarked with satisfaction and the cab pulled to the side of the street.

John recognized the corner between Nether Street and Howcroft Crescent – living with Sherlock was certainly giving him a very deep knowledge of London. "So what are we doing here?" he asked.

But Sherlock was busy glaring pointedly at the cabby: "I should say, here we are _at last_. For surely we could have arrived _much_ earlier, if our good driver hadn't chosen to tour half of Barnet before getting us to our destination!"

John caught sight of the cabby's face reddening in the rear-view mirror.

"Ah, well, now," the corpulent man mumbled. "Sorry 'bout tat... 'Twas a good tale, is all. Can't blame a bloke fer bein' curious! Tell ye what, I'll only charge ye half, hows tat?"

Sherlock bristled at the mangling of the English language, and John, knowing the signs, hurriedly thanked the cabby and pushed his friend out. No point missing out on a half-fare just because of Sherlock's personal crusade in defence of Grammar.

"I'll ask again," he said, to divert Sherlock's attention. "Why are we here?"

* * *

_TBC..._


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

_Previously on "A True Gem"..._

_"Care to bring me up to date?" John asked his best friend, not bothering to stifle his eager grin at the idea of a new case._

_Sherlock's eyes were glistening with excitement: "A jewellery theft!" he cried happily._

_John raised his eyebrows: "Really?" he asked, surprised. "Doesn't seem like the kind of case you would get excited about. You usually solve these ones from home, if at all."_

_"Ah, but John! This case isn't half as dull as I first feared. See, there is no trace that the theft happened at all! None whatsoever!" Sherlock said gleefully. He paused artfully. "Except, of course, that the Blue Carbuncle is missing! Ah, here we are," he remarked with satisfaction as their cab pulled to the side of the street._

_John recognized the corner between Nether Street and Howcroft Crescent – living with Sherlock was certainly giving him a very deep knowledge of London. "So what are we doing here?" he asked._

* * *

"We're here to interrogate Henry Baker, of course," sniffed Sherlock, stalking off towards the nearest row of neat but undistinguishable suburban dwellings.

"Interrogate Henry Baker," repeated John, drawing on his patience. "Right. Ok. Why, exactly? For that matter, who is this Baker?"

Sherlock ignored him with practised ease.

John sighed and hurried after him.

The tall consulting detective veered decidedly towards Number Nineteen and in a moment he'd crossed the desolate-looking corner of garden and was knocking impatiently at the unremarkable door, still ignoring John.

The doctor shrugged and caught up with him. He should have known better than to expect explanations when Sherlock was on the hunt, he supposed.

A faded woman with a lurid pink hairnet, wrapped in a washed-out pink robe and with a dull, uninterested gaze, opened the door a fraction.

"Sherlock Holmes," his flatmate said authoritatively, flashing what looked suspiciously like Lestrade's identification before the woman's eyes so quickly she had to blink. "I'm here to talk with Mr. Baker on the matter of the Horner theft."

She frowned, looking worried, but shuffled out of the way.

The house was a typical semi, with a dark, narrow corridor going off to, probably, the kitchen, a sitting room on the left – John caught a glimpse of an over-abundance of lollies and frillies over worn furniture and the murmur of a soap-opera from the TV in a corner – and narrow stairs to a just as dark first floor.

The woman dragged herself to the bottom step and peered up, abruptly screeching: "Haaa-ryyyy!"

The sound of a chair scraping came from somewhere above them. She turned to Sherlock and made a vague motion up the stairs, then shuffled back to the sitting room, sliding into the room. She glanced back once and glared at John, who gaped back, and she slammed the door with finality.

"Right," John muttered.

Sherlock was already sprinting up the stairs and John followed with a muffled curse.

They met their quarry as he was coming out of his room: a gangly man, probably in his late twenties, judged John; with the same mousy hair and undefined features as the woman downstairs, but with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Mr. Baker? We're here to ask a few questions about the Horner theft," said Sherlock with an overwhelming air of authority. "I'm sure you were expecting us."

He practically bulled the man back inside the room – not very spacious, but brightly lit with several lamps, in stark contrast to the rest of the house – and immediately started looking around, in typical Sherlock fashion.

John allowed himself a good look as well.

The most eye-catching feature was the black and white poster of a XIX century train station which covered the entirety of the wall on their left: a highly detailed triumph of open ironworks spanning from floor to ceiling and leaving no corner of the wall supporting it visible. The intensely black girders were almost disquieting, but also rather cool, John had to admit.

The rest of the room was far less striking: standard furniture of average quality, cheaply varnished white woods and a lot more plastics than John could bring himself to appreciate. A small bed still unmade was wedged next to the door; a big window without curtains occupied the wall opposite it, with a slipshod studio couch under it and a narrow radiator attached to the wall, pushed all the way to the corner. On their right, opposite the photographed railway station, a desk was pushed between the edge of the window and a small wardrobe, with a turned on laptop on it. The desk was positively overflowing with magazines, notebooks and various papers; John was fleetingly amused by the fact that the desk seemed to hold the entirety of the room owner's books, too, for there were none to be seen elsewhere.

Sherlock, of course, had taken in all this and surely a lot more in a fraction of the time it was taking John and was already turning towards their... was he a suspect? A witness? John wasn't really sure...

In any case, the man was tense and worried: "Questions? What kind of questions?" he asked, looking troubled. "I mean, if I can help, of course, but I don't see how I- how do you even know- did Mrs. Ravensdale... or- wait, you aren't police, are you?"

"No," said Sherlock curtly, which seemed to leave the other heartened and uncertain at once. "Tell me about the theft," he then ordered, focusing his intense gaze on the young man.

Mr. Baker blinked, managing to appear somewhat bemused: "But I know nothing of it!" he protested, but it was half-hearted.

Sherlock scoffed in disgust and glared.

The man gulped, looking intimidated: "A-all right... well... I- I can tell you what I've been told?" he ventured, darting nervous glances at Sherlock and even sparing a few for John.

Sherlock's glare went up a notch: "You can tell me _everything_, _including_ what you've been told," he replied forbiddingly. "You work there, don't you? That means anything you tell us might have relevance to the case."

John couldn't help a soft: "Oh!" as he _finally _realized why, indeed, they were interrogating Mr. Baker.

"Yes, John. _Oh,_" mocked Sherlock impatiently, then insisted with the young man: "Start with what you did last night and this morning – every detail."

"You could have just told me," grumbled John, very quietly.

Henry Baker gulped again: "I-I..." he looked from the consulting detective to John, apparently lost. "Well... okay... so. Last night. Well, nothing. I mean, I didn't go out or anything. Didn't even see Cathy. I got back from work at half past seven p.m., had dinner with Mum, then studied until I went to bed. Ehm. This morning... same thing, really: nothing weird happened, to me at least."

He seemed to falter a little under Sherlock's unrelenting attention. Taking pity on him, John prompted him: "Why don't you tell us anyway? We're not familiar with your routine, after all."

"Right." Baker looked a little relieved as he turned to talk to him, still glancing nervously at Sherlock every now and then. John mentally rolled his eyes: how had Sherlock and he ended up playing 'bad-cop-good-cop' like in a cheap Hollywood movie?

Baker started talking hesitantly, then with more and more confidence: "I... I always catch the tube in the mornings... around quarter to eight, usually, and then I walk the last of the distance to the jewellery. It opens to the public at half past eight a.m. but I always go in earlier, to check on things, you know, report if anything is amiss, that kind of thing, and to let the cleaning lady in too – it's part of my job."

Sherlock interrupted: "Cleaning lady. That would be... Mrs. Gupta?"

"Yes. That's right." Baker licked his lips. "She's been doing it for years now – since before I was hired," he said in a carefully measured tone. "Mrs. Ravensdale, the owner, thinks her very trustworthy." He was suddenly scrutinizing Sherlock avidly, as if hoping to spot suspicion in Sherlock's face, but the consulting detective was giving nothing away.

"And _was_ anything amiss when you arrived?"

Not quite managing to hide his disappointment, the young man replied a little sullenly: "No, not at all."

"Nothing?" pressed Sherlock.

"I'm telling you, nothing was amiss!" retorted Baker, unexpectedly growing irritated.

"It could be very important," interjected John, to smooth things out a little, "please try and remember – even if it's something small and insignificant."

Baker gave a put-upon sigh, but closed his eyes to try and remember better: "Display windows, counter, showcases... no, nothing was out of place – it's quite easy to spot if it is, because all the furniture is in strict and clear lines. It's supposed to convey our seriousness, you see. The showcases were all untouched, of that I'm sure."

"Wait, didn't you say the gem had been stolen?" frowned John.

"That was in the vault!" protested Baker. "I wouldn't have seen it either way!"

"Oh?" He must have sounded perplexed, because Sherlock threw out a rather distracted explanation: "The store has a fairly standard layout, John - large display area in the front, then a hallway that leads to a private viewing area, the manager's office, a small walk-in vault, and an employees' toilet. According to the manager the most valuable jewels remain stored in the vault until a prospective buyer comes along."

"Exactly!" cried Baker, sounding half-exasperated and half-vindicated. "Nothing _I could have noticed_ was amiss."

"Hmm," was Sherlock's only comment. "Go on," he ordered, turning his focus on the corner between the sofa and the desk.

Baker glared, but it lacked any kind of heat. "Well, then I checked the day's to-do list, exactly as I do every day. Mrs Ravensdale arrived, we exchanged the usual small talk, we opened up officially, Mrs. Gupta left. All as usual. I'd seen that what we expected to be the most likely buyer for the Blue Carbuncle had an appointment that afternoon, so I reminded Mrs. Ravensdale, and also that I was supposed to meet a lady in Surrey for an evaluation of some jewels she'd recently inherited. So I left."

"To go to Surrey."

"Yes. I gave Mrs. Ravensdale the key for the safe we keep in the vault and went to look for a cab to take me to the station, then I took a train to..."

"Wait. You gave Mrs. Ravensdale the key?" Sherlock's attention was once more riveted on the man.

"Of course. She needs it for the safe. I told you, that buyer was expected that very afternoon and I couldn't be sure I'd be back on time!"

"But why did _you_ have the key?" asked John, perplexed. "Isn't she the owner?"

"Are you implying that I'm not trustworthy enough for such a responsibility?" cried Baker, obviously offended. John blinked, thrown by unexpected ferocity of the reaction. He hadn't meant anything with his comment, he was just trying to understand.

"Just so you know," sniffed the man, in a defensive tone, "there are _two_ keys. A safety precaution. Mrs. Ravensdale can be forgetful, she sometimes leaves hers in her desk drawer, it's best that there is another level of security! And of course, I cannot use mine on my own..."

"Why not?" interjected Sherlock coolly. "You could very easily retrieve Mrs. Ravensdale's key from the drawer you know it's in, could you not?"

Baker rounded on the consulting detective with a thunderous expression: "I would _never_," he hissed, breathing hard. "And it wouldn't do me any good anyway, even if – which I'm _not –_ but in any case I don't know the code – both keys must be used _together_ and the right passcode inserted, otherwise the alarm goes off and the police intervenes."

"Sounds overly complicated," muttered John.

"No, it's important!" retorted the man vehemently. "That's the top-security safe, the one we only use for special pieces. The others are much simpler, of course..."

A brief silence followed.

Judging by the faraway intensity of his gaze, Sherlock was clearly contemplating something and John smiled a little at Baker while he waited patiently for the genius to decide on their next move. The smile was not returned.

After a moment or two, Baker started fidgeting and soon it was him that broke the silence: "I was told when I got back from Surrey that there was no clue of any kind about how the theft had taken place," he said nervously. It was and wasn't a question. "No fingerprints... no signs of break-in..."

"...and no damning CCTV footage," concluded Sherlock curtly. "That's correct."

"But how is that possible?" blurted out Baker, distressed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and didn't bother answering.

"Could it have been the owner? Mrs... Ravensdale, was it?" wondered John aloud. "Like, an insurance scam or something?"

"Of course not!"

"Obviously not!"

The replies had come in perfect unison, Baker's indignant, Sherlock's disdainful.

John scowled: "Well it seems like the most likely explanation to me – she had both keys, presumably knew the code..."

"How dare you! Horner's is one of the most reputable jewelleries in London, I'll have you know!" cried Baker, furious and offended.

He seemed ready to launch into a rant, but Sherlock cut him off brusquely: "Yes, yes, whatever. The point is, John," he went on rapidly, ignoring the other man, who frowned thunderously, but soon deflated under Sherlock's supreme disinterest, "assurances frauds are very difficult for jewels retailers. Most companies nowadays use statistical analysis to identify suspicious claims for further investigation. Since a claim is identified as 'suspicious' by comparing it to expected values, which in turn are obtained by analysing records and by marking symptoms that in the past have often been associated with fraudulent claims, you can imagine that jewellery theft is very much a 'red flag'. In fact, it is, along with warehouse fires, the most frequently attempted assurances scam and therefore, obviously, one of the most difficult, as any claim is minutely investigated..."

John nodded: "Fair enough."

"Fair!" exploded Baker, sputtering indignantly. "There is nothing fair about insulting a respectable lady like this – impugning our good name – accusing us of... of...!"

But Sherlock wasn't done: "Furthermore," he went on, still supremely unconcerned with Baker's less-than-coherent grousing. "There is the matter of reputation to consider."

"Our reputation is impeccable! Impeccable, I tell you! And I won't stay here and listen to you throwing mud on..."

"Yes, yes," snapped Sherlock, clearly aggravated by the raising volume of Baker's voice. "As if I care. Reputation is nothing to _me._"

Baker cried out, outraged, but was ignored.

"But to a jewellery such as Horner's?" continued Sherlock. "Oh, yes. I understand how important it is. Customers' trust is at the heart of such a business. A reputation of fairness, punctuality, consistency... its impact is invaluable. Essential to any hope for future deals. And unfortunately for them, it's the kind of thing that takes decades to build, and all of five minutes to lose, especially in our times, when every misstep is so efficiently magnified and spread online."

"Which is why you should take better care of what you say...!" tried to interject Baker, venomously.

"And reputation recovery? Almost impossibly hard," went on Sherlock with gusto, though John was unsure whether he was relishing the topic, or rather how effortlessly he was irritating their witness. "Which is why, naturally, Mrs. Ravensdale called me instead of the police."

"What?" asked John, surprised. "I thought you were cooperating on this one."

"Cooperating?" squeaked Baker, his outrage derailed by sudden panic. "What – no, you said you weren't – _have you told the police?_"

Sherlock rolled his eyes: "No, no. your precious reputation is safe – for now. So long as your buyer believes Mrs. Ravensdale's excuse, at any rate."

The young man winced visibly.

"So she hired you directly?" asked John curiously. "Through the site?"

Sherlock shrugged: "Her sister'd been a client of mine years ago – a case of blackmail her idiotic adolescent son had got himself embroiled in, rather dull all in all – and word gets around, you know. She specifically recommended discretion on the matter. See? Reputation." He smiled grimly. "She stands to lose everything because of this theft, just imagine the glee with which the press would sensationalize it... and she'd gain what? It can't be that she needs the money: she'd get it anyway, after all, the buyer's willingness had already been ascertained. A regular sell, in this case, would be the quickest and safest way to obtain it. Not that I believe she would get herself be blackmailed or anything of the sort, by the way. She might have had a reason to want the gem for herself I suppose – _sentiment_," he grimaced, "but if that was the case, why offer it for sale at all? It was hers already. No, no." He took a deep breath, evidently coming to the conclusion of his tirade. "It wasn't her," he declared with finality.

"I should hope not!" was Baker's passionate comment. "And the mere fact that you tried to accuse us..."

Ignoring him completely, Sherlock fired off an abrupt question: "Where do you keep your key?"

Used to being unable to follow his best friend's rapid-flash reasoning, John didn't worry too much about what key it was just yet. He'd catch up later. As usual. Baker, on the other hand, was completely derailed and not a little baffled. He gaped at Sherlock and the consulting detective, exasperated, repeated slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a slow child: "Where - do - you - usually - keep – the – key?"

"Er... the key of the safe, you mean?"

John almost smacked himself, because of course: what other key could be in any way relevant?

"Yes!" huffed Sherlock.

"Oh. ah. There." The man gestured vaguely to a small shelf atop the radiator in the corner. "In that ceramic little box."

John caught a flash of triumph in his friend's eyes. "Hm," said Sherlock, as usual, not giving out anything. And then, out of the blue: "Very well. Tell me about the fight."

"What fight?" asked Baker bemused, looking at the detective as if he'd gone mad under his very eyes.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "The fight you were in."

The other frowned: "But I wasn't..."

John's eyebrows rose. Fight? He scanned Baker's frame: he could spot no sign of a fight – no bruises or scratches or-

"Don't lie to me!" snapped Sherlock. "There was a fight here, no more than four days ago! The marks on that desk leg are quite clear and the carpet doesn't entirely hide where glass shards have ruined the parquet – a vase fell, didn't it? Oh, no, it was a lamp – that one over there in the corner, it must have had a stained glass shade, judging from the holder, yet it has nothing but the bulb now, clearly you took off the remaining shards but haven't had time to replace the shade. Yes, there was a scuffle and the lamp was overturned and broke. That would be consistent with the thin scratches all over your arm, too... and with the small glass shards still embedded in the carpet – you should vacuum by the way. The chipped plaster on that wall indicates the door was slammed - twice, I believe - and there are signs on the parquet where the chair was shoved brutally out of the way of someone. Obviously, it was someone in a rage – a male, quite tall, stockier than you: he barged in, probably shouted a lot, nobody was hurt but things were broken, both accidentally and not, then he stormed out. And you've kept sneaking glances to the sofa the whole time I've been talking about this scuffle, it's obvious something happened there that led to the fight so. Tell. Me. About. It!"

"Amazing," breathed John, looking around a bit wide-eyed to spot the signs that were rapidly becoming obvious, now that Sherlock had pointed them out.

Baker seemed suddenly relieved, then embarrassed. "Yeah, um, well. Yeah, there was a- a scuffle – Friday evening that was – but it has nothing to do with my job!" he protested earnestly.

"Oh, really?" asked Sherlock snidely. "Because it took place awfully close to where you keep the key..."

"No, no," Baker shook his head energetically. "It was just – well, Cathy and I – my girlfriend you know – she's brilliant, we have so much in common, I never thought I'd find someone like her, but her father, hum, he... he doesn't really approve of... well – me, basically. And he must have found out she'd sneaked in here to see me and he burst upon us and, well, he... he wasn't well-pleased..." he concluded weakly.

John gave him a sympathetic look.

"Sneaked in here," repeated Sherlock. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?" demanded Baker, on the defensive. "Plenty of people do – parents never understand when their children are ready to live their own lives and-"

"It's interesting that you didn't say 'sneaked out'," said Sherlock, speaking over him unconcernedly.

There was a pause, during which Baker gaped at Sherlock, until John got it: "Her father wasn't the only one to disapprove," he realized aloud. "Your mother objected to, didn't she?"

Baker glowered: "She doesn't understand. Cathy is perfect for me! Mum is just too old-fashioned to..."

"Did she know your girlfriend was here on Friday?" asked Sherlock severely.

John's eyebrows rose. It was beyond unlikely that Sherlock might care for the girl's reputation, so this must be related to the theft somehow. Only he had no clue how.

Baker was embarrassed again: "She climbed in through the window. The Redspire pear there," he gestured vaguely to a sturdy tree John couldn't have told apart from any other leave-less tree in the winter, but whose strong-looking branches grew quite close to the window in question, "is kind of perfect, I've used it countless times myself, since I was a kid..."

"So the window was open?"

"Yes. Well. Just the time to get her in. It's winter, you know."

"Get her in... and kiss her hello?" asked Sherlock slyly.

Baker blushed, then looked defiant: "I don't see what..."

Again the flash of triumph. What, exactly, had Sherlock deduced? Because it was clear he'd got answers to questions John had missed.

"Of course you did. Right there by the window, I'd wager, and closer to the right side of it, where the branch nearly touches the sill, yes, yes, so obvious!"

Sherlock waved Baker's feeble protests silent impatiently. "The box with the key was upturned during the fight," he declared, scrutinizing Baker intensely.

Suddenly Baker seemed to get the implication: "Yes, but I found the key immediately!" cried the man, anxious and offended. "It was the first thing I checked! You can't possibly think my Cathy has anything to do with this. I take my responsibilities very seriously, you know! The key was there, it never moved!"

"That it was there, I can believe. That it never moved has still to be proven."

"What?!" The man was again looking lost.

John, for his part, was used enough to Sherlock to be able to put two and two together, but before he could do more than frown, Sherlock snapped: "Let's go, John."

And just like that, the consulting detective was down the stairs and marching out the door into the freezing night, leaving a blinking, bewildered Mr. Baker in his wake.

John threw a hurried apology his way and hastened after his friend.

* * *

_A/N:__ I feel a bit weird about writing of cold nights when there is 35°C here, but I suppose it's my fault for leaving a Christmas story to grow mould until June... Hope someone's still interested even though it's been so long. Another chapter of deductions and clues should be up soon, too! Luna_


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